stamping in our direction with a scowl on his face.
I decided there were safer places to be than standing between Pericles and Archestratus, so I said, “Excuse me, Archestratus, I must move on.”
Archestratus waved his hand with an air of nonchalance and said, “Of course. Weighty matters call you.” And at that he was swept away by his friends before Pericles could reach him.
I walked on to the house of Xanthippus. The guards recognized me and let me pass. Slaves were swarming over the place, rebuilding what the rioters had damaged. This was the home of a wealthy man, so it was made almost entirely from strong wooden beams and solid timber walls. If Xanthippus had been a poor man, or even one of only average means, the walls of his home would have been constructed from daub and mud brick, perhaps so thin that a determined man could punch his way through from the street. The stronger construction had worked for Xanthippus-his house was still standing after all-but meant rebuilding was going to be more costly, take longer, and be more expensive; any support that was fire damaged could no longer be trusted, and I saw several places where workers had pulled down smoke-blackened veneer to inspect the struts behind. I doubted Xanthippus would be able to recoup the cost from the men the Scythians had taken up.
Since the andron was in ruins, the house slave led me to the study, where Xanthippus sat.
He glanced up as I entered and said, “You again.” He stood. “I didn’t thank you for your assistance when the mob came. I thank you now.”
I was uncomfortable considering what I’d come to say. “Any citizen would have done the same.”
“Many citizens would disagree with you. The ones attacking my home, for instance.”
“The man who shot Ephialtes has been killed.”
“So Pythax told me. He also told me he saved your life.”
“I’m very grateful.” It was no surprise to me that Pythax had reported to Xanthippus.
“Good. Now we can put this whole sorry saga behind us and get on with the vital job of ruling Athens.”
“You think so? Then what of this proposal from Archestratus to recall Themistocles? Doesn’t that upset the Areopagus?”
Xanthippus, for the first time since I had known him, looked less than sure of himself. He fidgeted in his seat and crossed his legs.
After a pause he said, “I’m no hypocrite. I regret the death of Ephialtes, but I can’t deny it’s an opportunity to restore some imbalances.”
Xanthippus stopped speaking to watch some slaves carry out a broken table.
“It’s a compromise,” he said, oddly echoing the words of Archestratus. “Themistocles was a member of the Areopagus, but he was also extremely popular with the people. Perhaps Archestratus has the right idea.”
“But what if someone hired the killer? It’s inconceivable Aristodicus could have been acting on his own. What possible reason had he for killing an Athenian politician?”
Xanthippus shrugged. “Not every killing has to have a reason. In all likelihood, he was a madman acting alone. I understand he later ran amok in Ephialtes’ home and slaughtered all the women. Perhaps he had a personal grudge against Ephialtes. We’ll probably never know.”
I placed the bag I’d taken from Pericles on the table, then the other alongside it. “One of these was found around the neck of Aristodicus of Tanagra. Would you care to explain what your money bag was doing around the neck of the assassin?”
Xanthippus’ eyes widened. “But that’s impossible! I have no idea how he got it.”
“Someone gave it to him. The obvious person is you.”
“I would be foolish to deny it. I am the obvious choice for your suspicions. Yet I will swear by any God that I didn’t. I’ve sent these bags to many people in the past. Any one of them could have passed it on to this assassin.” Xanthippus picked up the bag and examined it. He muttered to himself, “How interesting.”
“You see something?”
“What? Oh, no. I merely mean how interesting that this should have happened.”
“Your claim that Aristodicus was a madman acting alone is refuted. It is obvious the coins are the mercenary pay for his crime, and it is equally obvious the man who paid him was not just an Athenian, but someone you know, or you yourself, sir. Who else has these distinctive bags?”
“Any time I need to send money or a scroll to someone, I place it in one of these. The less honest among my acquaintances, or to be generous about it, the more forgetful, don’t always return the bag. It might be possible to list most people I’ve sent something to in the last few months, but I doubt the slaves would remember everyone.” Xanthippus thought for a moment. “Ah, I have it! It was not long ago that I had cause to send a scroll to Ephialtes. No doubt this assassin stole the bag from his house when he was slaughtering Ephialtes’ womenfolk.”
“What a very convenient explanation. Are you sure you sent a bag to Ephialtes?”
“I feel quite sure that when I check, I will find that a bag was sent to Ephialtes.”
Once more I pulled out the broken token. “Do you recognize this?”
Xanthippus examined the jagged edge with interest. “No,” he said curtly. “Does it have something to do with the murder?”
“Yes.” But I didn’t tell him what, because I didn’t know.
I left Xanthippus to the joys of restoring his ruined home. I felt sure that for all the glibness of his replies, he’d be spending a sleepless night. This pleased me. At last I was putting pressure on my suspects.
My next stop was the home of Lysanias, the only Eponymous Archon of the last six years whom Ephialtes had not targeted as corrupt. If Ephialtes, who had been active in trying to discredit every archon he could, had not been able to find anything against him, it probably meant Lysanias was honest. His slaves told me Lysanias had left for the new gymnasium at the Academy.
I walked northwest, out the Dipylon Gates, through the deme of Outer Ceramicus, past olive groves, orchards, and small, elegant estates, then to a walled park. Everything was green, the air tasted of life, beautiful trees provided shade, and olives grew for the picking. Statues and the occasional fountain lined the way. Three of the statues had been commissioned from Sophroniscus and I stopped to admire them as I passed. When I walked through the low gates, it was like stepping into the Elysian Fields.
The Academy had been built many years before my time, the third gymnasium of Athens, but its reputation had been so poor, and it was so far from the Agora, that almost no one used it until Cimon had virtually torn the whole place apart and started again. He had funded the entire enterprise out of his own pocket, using wealth he had taken during his many successful battles against the Persians, and it had cost him a fortune.
The gymnasium, like the grounds, was a thing of beauty. I passed through the entrance into a quadrangle lined with porticoes. Most held naked men giving and receiving massages, bathing, or anointing themselves with oil, so much oil in fact that the whole gymnasium smelled of it. I walked around all four sides but did not see Lysanias, so I passed through into the next courtyard. This was squared off into patches of sand for wrestling practice, jumping, exercises, and playing quoits. As I walked in, I was sprayed with sand as one man threw another, who landed on his back before me. I walked around the unconscious body and walked briskly to the other side, where I saw Lysanias about to throw a quoit. His body was so wiry I could see the cords of muscles move beneath his skin as he prepared.
Lysanias grasped the thong from which hung a heavy ball made of twisted rope. He swung the thong back and forth a few times, getting a feel for the weight, then made a series of rotating steps forward before hurling the quoit with all his strength. I shaded my eyes to look for the fall. I saw it in the distance, the ball struck and bounced thrice before stopping. For an old man it had been an excellent throw.
“Excuse me, Lysanias, could I have a word with you?”
He looked me over with clear blue eyes, which I was entirely unable to read. “You are?”
“Nicolaos, son of Sophroniscus, sir.”
“Ah yes, Pericles’ little attack dog. I’ve heard of you. Every member of the Council has been warned about you. Well, young man, I haven’t killed anyone this month, so I’m probably not of much interest to you.”
That was not the most flattering description of me I’d ever heard! I marveled at the different views of me going about. First the influential young politician from Telemenes, now the dog from Lysanias. And still I thought of myself as a mere investigator looking for a chance to show what I could do. As the philosophers say, no man can ever truly know another.
“I’m doing what I can to uncover who killed Ephialtes, sir. As for the rest, it is true my commission is from Pericles, but that won’t stop me from publishing the names of the killers when I have them.”
